Why The Dog Has Bad Breath

Why The Dog Has Bad Breath

The dog has bad breath. And by bad, I mean gruesome. If you were to rate smells on a scale of one to ten, where one represented good, and ten bad, bacterial vaginosis would be a one, and Daisy's breath would be a ten.

"Any chance you can take Daisy to the vet?" I say to my husband. "Her breath is rank."

The dog has heard us talking about her. She is wagging her tail. This is because she has no self-esteem. Zero. You could literally say anything, for example:

Let's put Daisy on a one-way flight to Korea.


Daisy smells like she's been sampling Mike Pence's pump-action yoghurt rifle.


Daisy is a bigger twat than Michael Flatley.

And she would STILL wag her tail.

Say hello to Daisy

My husband takes her to the vet.

"Could you take a look at her teeth?" he says. "My wife thinks her breath smells."

"I can't see anything", says the nurse. "Maybe your wife's being a bit neurotic?"

I am a little peeved by this response. Last time I looked at the nurse's badge, it said Becky, not fucking Sigmund. My husband, on the contrary, thinks this is the most perceptive thing anybody has EVER said. I'm surprised he doesn't shag her there and then.

"Probably!" he says. "Thank you."

He brings home a bottle of 'Plaque Off'. As recommended by Becky. The title is worryingly lightweight. I turn the bottle around, hoping to read something along these lines:

Does your dog smell like she's downed a sewage smoothie?

Do your worry that your dog's oesophagus leads directly to the realm of the dead?

Do you regularly consider running away from your home, family and children, just to be free of the gut-churning abomination of your pet's breath?

If you answered yes to any of these question, sprinkle a fuckload of this on their food.

Instead, the 'Plaque Of'f label cautiously recommends using one scoop a day for eight weeks.

"I can't take another eight weeks of this nightmare!" I say.

Later, I see Daisy trotting into the downstairs toilet.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I shout.

Daisy has her head in the toilet bowl. She is imbibing piss. Piss with skin on it. Piss brulee. She gives me a look as if to say, "This is delicious. Wanna try some?"

"Bed" I say. "Go to your bed!"

But it's happy hour at the sewers. It's drink-all-you-can at the Number One bar. Time has not been called on THIS pee-pee party.

"Bed" I say, louder now.

Finally, she lifts her head from the bowl, a shudder of pleasure passing through her body.

I text my husband: Caught Daisy drinking piss. Need to fix toilet flush. Explains breath problem xx

He texts back immediately: Maybe you're being a bit neurotic? x


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